


Pixie Dust

by kiismehardy



Category: the raven cycle
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Genderbend, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiismehardy/pseuds/kiismehardy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skov and Swan make out, basically. Based on the prompt 'Lust.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pixie Dust

**Author's Note:**

> So if you don't know what the Dream Pack is, it's Kavinsky's little group of friends that was mentioned only once in the series so far, in Chapter 34 of The Dream Thieves. All we know are their names and their cars. And yet these fuckers still have a fandom, and it's fabulous. 
> 
> This was written for cabeswaterprompts on tumblr, based on the prompt 'lust.' Possibly genderbent, but who knows? Hope you enjoy.

“Faith, trust, and pixie dust are all you need to fly,” Skov whispers, her lips brushing Swan’s ear. “Too bad you’re a lying bitch. I guess pixie dust will have to do.” Her callused fingers find Swan’s waistband and tuck a pinch of white powder wrapped in plastic against her skin. 

Swan turns and catches Skov’s mouth with her own. It’s muscle memory now. In the crush of people, too many bodies all crammed into some ratty trailer-trash living room/kitchenette, she aches for Skov. Skov’s hands on her wrists, holding her down. Skov trailing lipstick smudges down her bare back. Skov’s legs wrapped around her hips.

“Shut up, asshole.” Swan snakes her arms around Skov’s waist and presses against her, subtly moving to the beat of the music. “Let’s leave.” And she pulls the girl through the pulsing crowd, out into the sultry summer night. 

The crickets are so, so loud, a midsummer orchestra almost playing loud enough to drown out the lust tugging at Swan. But then Skov vaults into her Mazda convertible, long legs propped on the dash as soon as she sits in the passenger seat. Her eyes, jade green, beckon like a lighthouse. “Take me home, babe.” And any self-control Swan had is gone.

Swan glows like a ghost in the moonlight, all silvery-blonde hair and phantom-pale skin. A laugh rips out of her as she slams on the gas and she’s so alive, so damn alive, and as soon as they’re out of the trailer park Swan swings the car up a back road. Away from Henrietta and Aglionby and fucking Kavinsky.

Skov leans forward, coaxes the stereo into playing some harsh Ukranian ballad Proko left, and it echoes into the night. Her hair grazes Swan’s thigh and then she’s licking up Swan’s leg and her breasts are resting on Swan’s hand on the gear shift and the car is going faster, faster. The sweet-scented wind is making a mess of their hair and their thoughts and oh, God, it’s too much. Swan brings the car to a screeching halt on the side of the road. 

Skov stops for a moment to glare up at Swan. “Don’t break my fucking car.” Swan rolls her eyes and says, “Get out and fuck me already.” She throws open the door, already tugging her shirt up and over her head. Skov growls and climbs over the door, meeting Swan at the hood. 

The thin moon is low over the horizon. A wind wraps around them, skimming over miles of bare skin. Skov's lips taste of vodka shots and cigarettes and Swan is already addicted. Skov lifts her onto the hood, pushing her back so she’s exposed. Her skirt lies crumpled in the dust, along with her tank top. 

Swan’s black bra is stark against her pale skin. Skov leans down to kiss her collarbone, where a tattoo of the constellation Cygnus is inked. Her tongue traces a path between each star as her hands roam down, playing with Swan’s barely-there thong. 

“Tell me you want me,” Skov whispers. “I want you to say you need me.” Swan moans breathily and pulls Skov to her, kissing her roughly. Every touch is a firework on her skin. She bites her lip, hard enough to taste blood. 

“I need you, Skov,” Swan pants. “I want you.” She hooks her legs around Skov’s waist and unhooks her bra. The packet of powder falls into her lap.

Skov pauses and they both stare at it. “We could take it.” It’s one of Kavinsky’s, something pulled out of a dream or a nightmare or a dealer’s pocket. Never been tried.

Swan shakes her head. “Nah. Who needs pixie dust when I’ve got you?” And she leans back onto the hood, pulling Skov with her.


End file.
